Ask A Silly Question…

A Hidden Gem in the Narrawong State Forest: Sawpit Camping Area

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One of the things I always try to do when I am out and about on a road trip or holiday is to see something new or visit a place I haven’t visited before. 

Even though we are camping at the same place we’ve camped at every January since 2014, there are still new things to explore. Last year we visited the wonderful Bay of Whales Gallery nestled in the hills above Narrawong.

Today we ventured up to Mt Clay in the Narrawong State Forest to check out The Sawpit picnic and free camping area. It’s only a short distance from where we are camping by the Surrey River at  Narrawong.

It’s really gorgeous up there. The natural bush forest is beautiful, a glorious natural canopy above the blackened tree trunks, reminders of bushfires In years past. 

The camping area is well designed, providing numerous sites for campers to spread out from one another.

Walking tracks enable visitors to immerse themselves in the environment on walks of different lengths, and the historic lumber cart and log display are reminders of the history that gave the area its name. 

Everything is clearly signposted, including a reminder for campers to take their rubbish home: given that everything was clean and tidy, it’s really encouraging to see that most of the visitors have been conscientious in that regard. 

Still, it seems that things are not always easily understood, as demonstrated by my own friend’s response to the following sign: 

Friend: “20 minutes one way. Why would you only go one way?”
Me: ”It’s a loop…”
Friend, after a few moments of thought: ”Oh. Yeah.”

What surprises me most is that many people don’t even know it’s there. It really is a hidden gem. 

Think About What You’re Asking.

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My sister just called out to me from the kitchen while she was chopping vegetables.

Her: Are you two big vegetable eaters?

Me: If they’re big, we cut them up first.

Her: Huh?

Me: How do you even cook it unless you cut it up?

Her: No. That’s not what I’m asking.

Me: *looks at her expectantly*

Her: Do you eat a lot of vegetables?

Me: See now, that’s an entirely different question.

Her: *shows me the saucepan* Is this enough for four of us?

Me: No.

 

And she has the nerve to walk away rolling her eyes. Some people are just hard to please.

cornucopia-of-vegetables

My New Career… Or Not.

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Today I was at a potluck lunch where the guests included a number of my relatives. 

When I walked in, my sister-in-law congratulated me on the award I won this week for my book, Nova. 

“What did you win an award for?” One of the ladies asked, with a time that suggested she was surprised that I could win an award for anything. 

“Pole dancing,” I replied. 

Nobody laughed. It was such a good line, too. 

One lovely young lady, whom I didn’t know, said, “Really? That’s fantastic!”

Seriously, one look at me should have told her I am no pole dancer. Between my decrepit spine and my fibromyalgia, the only thing I can ever climb these days is the pain scale between 1 and 10. 

“No, it was for my book. I write poetry.”

“Oh. That’s… kind of cool.” 

But not as cool as pole dancing. I get it. 

You know you’re from Warrnambool when…

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You know you’re from Warrnambool when the conversation goes like this: 

Him: So, you haven’t seen much of Amanda this term.

Me: No. She hasn’t been to school, obviously, and she hasn’t been coming out for drinks. 

Him: Has she been going to Simon’s?

Me: No, we’ve been going to the Clovelly since it got cold. 

Me: Oh! That Simon’s! (Where Simon is Amanda’s fiancée who lives six hours’ drive away.)  Yeah. She has. 

Genius.

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Just now,  LMC and I had this conversation. 

LMC: “You’re a nut.”

Me: “No. You’re a nut.”

LMC: “Nutty’s a nut.”

Me: “No, Nutty’s a squirrel. I’m a genius.”

LMC: “Because you’re wearing jeans?”

Me: “Yeah. I have a jean-y arse.”
She cracked up again. Honestly, she laughs at the littlest things. 

Nothing up my sleeve…

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So, I forgot to tell the funniest part of last night’s fart story. 

After she finished laughing, she asked me, “Is that all you’ve got? Or is there something else up your sleeve?”

And I said, “That wasn’t up my sleeve, honey.” 

Riotous laughter ensued yet again. 

Posh.

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High-walled gardens and tree-lined paths. Private mansions. Beautifully presented low-rise apartment blocks. Smartly dressed people walking briskly in the soft rain when they alight from the tram. Maseratis and Alfa Romeos parked by the kerb.

“I think there’s some money here,” says my brother-in-law from the back seat.
“You think?” I reply.

We drive on.

The answer to the question “How are you?”

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People think I am so strong.
I’m not.

I’m trying to be patient and encouraging, but I am failing dismally.

I’m flawed and broken and frustrated, and I keep on going because I don’t know what else to do.
I’m so tired. I’m tired of pretending everything is ok when it’s clearly not. I’m tired of trying to stay positive when everything feels like it’s turning into seventeen kinds of crap on a daily basis.
It terrifies me that the doctors still don’t know what they are dealing with.
It scares me that my usually active husband is pale, sleeps all the time, and has fevers on a regular basis. He’s losing weight and not eating. He’s been poked and prodded, he’s had surgeries, he’s been on the receiving end of all sorts of tests, scans and needles.
I’m angry and resentful and impatient and scared and as miserable as hell, and there isn’t even anyone to blame.
It is what it is and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.

And that’s all before I even start to deal with any physical pain I experience on any given day.

People tell me to let them know if there is anything I need, and I say I will, but I don’t. I’ve been conditioned from an early age to not ask for help, to not talk about money, to not express emotions that might make other people uncomfortable, to not show others our weaknesses, to soldier on and go extra mile after extra mile. As a rule, Christians are expected to help those in need rather than admitting to being needy in some way. Even the word needy makes me cringe. Nobody wants to be needy. Ugh.

People tell me to make sure I take time out for myself. Treat myself. Get pampered.
Sure.
That’s going to happen.
I’m totally going to go out and indulge myself while he’s lying in hospital, a shadow of his former self.
As if.

Others have expressed surprise that I am still staying here with him.
Really?
What else did they think I was going to do? What part of who I am have they so obliviously overlooked? Or do I actually give people the impression that I that much of a selfish cow?

And if I did go home, even for one night, they’d be the first to tell everyone how heartless and selfish I was to do that.

Oh, home.
I miss home.
I miss my housemate/bestie and I miss LMC, even if she does test my patience with incessant chatter sometimes.
I miss my dog and my cat.
I miss my own bed. I miss my comfy chair.
I miss my bathroom, and I really miss having my own laundry that doesn’t cost me $20 every time we need clean clothes.
I miss having my own space that I don’t have to pay for at a set rate per night.
I miss falling asleep without crying for an hour or two first.

I just want him to be healthy again so we can go home.

And to the person who suggested that I’m kind of lucky because I’m “getting an extra holiday”… Why don’t you try it?

Please, don’t ask me how I am. You probably won’t like the answer any more than I do.

What do you think we’re doing?

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Hubby is in hospital after a heart attack yesterday.
I have been sitting by his bed all morning, watching him doze/sleep/rest. One of our besties is here with us.

He just woke up and asked us what we were doing. He didn’t even blink when we said, “Sunbathing by the pool… hot men fanning us and feeding us grapes.”